


(i gotta hold a hold on you)

by erlenwein



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Adultery, Angst, Author is not a native English speaker, Hints of Maes/Gracia, Hints of OCD!Hughes, M/M, PTSD, i think i spent more time on the title than on actually writing it, vague smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 10:40:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11781456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erlenwein/pseuds/erlenwein
Summary: Maes doesn't like talks like that, but he knows he ought to talk: it makes the pain go away for some time. At least, that's what Alex keeps saying: voice your feelings, share your pain, and it becomes bearable; as if Alex follows on his own advice. The man is pro in repression; Maes is, apparently, not.





	(i gotta hold a hold on you)

**Author's Note:**

> Beta-read by Morgrim! I'm very grateful for her help
> 
> I am not a native English speaker, so if you notice any mistakes, please tell me!
> 
> Hyuroi week 2017 - Day 6 - Support
> 
> TItle from The Pierces - Hold

When Roy steps on the platform, Maes is already waiting; he breaks through the crowd and hugs Roy tight, pulling him close enough to smell his aftershave. Roy is wearing civvies; while Maes prefers to see Roy in uniform, Amestrian blue of the fabric complementing Amestrian blue of his eyes, civvies work too. Although it's pretty obvious that Roy is a military man — his posture betrays him. Maes chuckles; Roy huffs and steps back.

'Hi,' he says, looking at Maes, 'now let's get you roaring drunk.'

 

That's an exaggeration; they rarely if ever get 'roaring' drunk. Just a few drinks to use as an excuse later; something to make their fake hangover a little more believable.

But with the drinks they start; Roy takes Maes to his favorite bar in Central. They've been going here since the academy; the owner is Roy's old friend, Madame something. She pours their drinks when she sees Roy and Maes walking in, and they thank her instead of greeting.

'Did something happen?' Roy asks, when they sit down in the corner. Maes shrugs.

'Yes and no. Objectively speaking, nothing is wrong. But, uhm...' He stops and looks down at his glass; the amber liquid is appealing. Maes doesn't like talks like that, but he knows he ought to talk: it makes the pain go away for some time. At least, that's what Alex keeps saying: voice your feelings, share your pain, and it becomes bearable; as if Alex follows on his own advice. The man is pro in repression; Maes is, apparently, not.

Roy raises his eyebrow. He doesn't nag: knows better than that. Maes forces himself to look into Roy's eyes.

'I woke up a couple of days ago, trying to remember why the hell Heathcliffe wasn't at my wedding. Did I forget to invite him or what...?'

Roy is silent; he knows exactly why the hell. Although he only learned that in a similar talk, when Maes was roaring drunk indeed, sobbing on Roy's shoulder; Maes himself had seen it, had _done_ it, but his mind still — for what, four, five years and counting, — still doesn't let him believe.

Maes doesn't continue; Roy takes his hand without saying a word.

A waitress brings them another round; 'on us', she says, and Roy quietly thanks her.

'Have you talked to anybody?' he asks, less to make sure, more to fulfill the classic scenario. He asks that, Maes answers he didn't, they finish their glasses and change the topic. Roy handles this shit much better than Maes does - mostly because he has Riza to talk to; he turned his own frustration, anger and guilt into motivation. Maes chose to repress it, and oh, was it a bad choice. He hasn't told Gracia — not once. She figured something out, he hopes, but no details; Maes doesn't want to put that burden on her.

The classic scenario it is; after their second round they move to the bar. Roy is listening to the song playing on the radio, silently repeating the lyrics; Maes watches him with a smile. He knows that song — they used to dance to it back in the days, Roy's hand on Maes' waist, Maes' hand on Roy's shoulder. He himself was never much of a dancer, but that was not about the moves; it was about being together. He misses this feeling desperately.

'Let's dance,' Maes finally says, and Roy, surprised, takes his hand. They sway together to the rhythm; Maes clutches Roy tight. In a day Roy will be gone for another two or three months, back in East City, unless something happens. Maes doesn't want something to happen; but he doesn't want to let go of Roy.

Roy hums to the tune, eyes half-shut, and Maes can't help himself: he leans to kiss him, chaste at first. They're in public, after all; but Madame says nothing, when they part. She'd seen it many times before, when they were cadets, when Roy was here last time, every time it starts the same and it ends the same.

 

Maes is on his knees in the alley behind the bar, undoing Roy's trousers, Roy's hand in his hair. Gone are his glasses; he doesn't need them now. He could do that blindfolded; hell, he _did_ it blindfolded several times. But now he wants to see, needs to see: he inhales Roy's smell and takes his cock into his mouth. Roy bites his hand; he's a vocal one, so he usually ends up with teeth marks on his hands. Maes finds it endearing; he'd like very much to shut him up with a kiss, but his mouth is occupied right now.

In that Maes is ridiculously good; he knows Roy's body, so now Roy's holding on for dear life, muffled moans going straight to Maes' cock. Maes puts his hand on Roy's hip, then squeezes his ass; Roy comes with a groan. Maes licks his lips and stands up; his knees hurt a bit. It's good; pain helps.

Roy kisses him, hungrily; his hand slides under Maes' shirt, then down, to his belt. Maes lets out a moan; Roy pushes him to a wall and kisses again. When he takes Maes' cock into his hand, it's Maes' turn to try and keep quiet. He comes embarrassingly fast; Roy, smug bastard, licks his fingers.

'Let's go somewhere more comfortable,' Maes suggests, when he catches his breath. Roy chuckles; he likes comfort, and they both know that getting caught in an alley won't do any of them any good.

 

'Somewhere more comfortable' is a room upstairs; Roy used to live here, but it's been empty since then. The narrow bed is made, curtains are closed; nobody'll bother them here. A small island of comfort, away from their troubles; a closed space where only two of them exist. Roy closes the door and undresses Maes slowly, kisses his shoulders; Roy loves to watch him just as much as Maes loves watching Roy.

They end up in bed, finally, clinging to each other, moving in synch; after they're done Roy stays in his arms for several minutes before standing up to get a towel. Maes watches him again — Roy's back is visibly scratched, and there are bite marks here and there on his shoulders; Maes suspects his own back isn't much better. Luckily for him, he doesn't have to find an explanation for that: Gracia prefers not to know. He is painfully aware of that; he tried to come clean before, and she cut him off every time. She feels safer that way: Maes is out there on a Friday night, having a boys-only night out; what happens on a boys-only night out, never makes its way home.

Nothing that happened in Ishval makes its way back home; he tries so hard to keep Gracia out of it, and he can't do it without Roy's help. As much as he loves her, he needs Roy to feel truly alive; alive for him doesn't equal 'comfortable' or 'safe'.

'Are you thinking again?' Roy asks, sitting next to him. 'Too bad. Need to make you black out in bliss, do I?'

Maes smiles; Roy had done that to him, many times. He's a skilled lover; maybe his jokes about being raised in a brothel weren't all jokes.

'I was thinking that I'm addicted to that. You, I mean. And I know the moral side of that, I just...'

Roy puts a finger on Maes' lips.

'Like playing with fire?' He laughs unhappily. 'I know. Don't make it all about yourself, now. You call, I answer. I could have stayed in East City if I didn't want to come, you know that, right? I am a willing participant, so I think I deserve half of the blame.'

Maes sits up and hugs him; Roy releases the breath he's been holding. They are in this together; they have to hold on to each other.

 

A quiet evening together; they're supposed to be drinking, but all Maes wants is to feel Roy's body next to his own. Roy's already dozing; his department is preparing some kind of performance report, and Roy's been working late for the last two weeks. He's drooling on the pillow now, hugging it with both hands; Maes pats his head softly. He wonders sometimes, how his life would go if he’d stayed with Roy: not married to him, of course, but they could be bonded; he knew guys in the army who did that. They would live together, in Central or in the East, work side to side; share their joy, their pain, their life. A tempting dream; Maes kind of wishes he had had a chance to try it out.

Roy mumbles in his sleep, and Maes bows down to kiss his cheek. They both have nightmares, different ones though; nights together help with that, but only for a while. Two or three months, four, if they’re lucky, and Maes will call Roy again, in the middle of the night, asking — begging him to come to Central — to come _to him_.

Roy never calls first — he’s better in dealing with it, he’s stronger, oh so much stronger; Maes is sure Roy has his own triggers, but he calls Riza when he’s having a crisis, and Maes is… jealous of that? Yes, that’s the word. He wants to be here for Roy, in sickness and health, but he said those exact words to Gracia and he can’t take them back — because he still means it.

 

The more Maes thinks of it, the shittier he feels: in his perfect world he’d just marry them both. No choosing, no lies, just being with people he loves; but he has reasons to assume Gracia would object to that. Roy wouldn’t: he doesn’t understand the basic concepts of jealousy and possessiveness. In their academy days Maes used to be upset about it. The only reason why Roy feels bad about their ‘group therapy’ now is the fact that they lie to Gracia; but Gracia doesn’t want to know the truth, so does it even count as lying?

 

Roy jolts awake; he’s disoriented and confused for a moment, but Maes is here, and Roy calms down.

‘Nasty dream, is all,’ he says, scratching his hands where the arrays should be. He sniffs the air, squinting. ‘Is there a barbeque somewhere? Smells like it.’

Maes frowns. It does smell like fried meat — and it’s not from the bar, Madame knows better than cooking something like that in Roy’s presence. He hates the smell: too many memories. Maes doesn’t question that: almost everybody who’d been at Ishval has something that sets them off. Fried meat, canned food, deserts, you name it; Maes knew a guy who couldn’t stand the sound of children laughing.

Most stick to the classic, of course, gunshots and explosions, thus making annual celebrations of military holidays incredibly awkward; Maes is glad he doesn’t react to sounds like that. But then, he still doesn’t know what sets _him_ off: there has been no pattern so far.

 

Next to him Roy yawns and stretches; the bed is too small for the two of them, and the sleeping in it isn’t very comfortable. They rarely _sleep_ in it, of course; that’s not why they’re here, so when Roy reaches for him Maes deepens the kiss, slowly stroking Roy’s thigh. Roy is in a ridiculously good shape: people who don’t know him would think it’s his vanity; Maes disagrees. Roy’s not as vain as he makes people believe he is; but he’s one of those guys who use physical activity as stress relief. In the academy, when he was nervous about exams, or tests, or anything, he either did push-ups, or went running, or fucked Maes into the mattress. Maes didn’t mind; he doesn’t mind now. But he likes a little bit of a challenge, so he ‘resists’ without meaning it.

After a short wrestling session Maes gives up and lets Roy pin him to the bed; Roy is grinning, sitting on Maes’ stomach. He’s gorgeous like this: hair dishevelled, eyes bright, smile blinding; Maes almost wishes he had taken his camera with him. Somewhere in his albums he keeps several pictures of Roy in situations like this, mostly naked and sweaty, but always with a winner’s smile and a little bit of mischief in his eyes; although he never takes these pictures out. Back in the days he wanted to show Roy off, to tell the world that they’re together; now he’d rather keep Roy private, close to him, his own…

Roy leans forward and bites Maes’ shoulder.

‘Stop that,’ he orders, ‘I know that look of yours. Somebody hasn’t been properly fucked and now overthinks everything, so stop that right now, that’s an order.’

Easier said than done, Maes thinks, but he obeys nonetheless; Roy pulling rank does things to him.

 

The bed is a mess; they don’t care about it. They both had slept in worse conditions; what matters is that they’re together in this mess, limbs tangled, so close to each other that Maes can see a wrinkle slowly forming between Roy’s eyebrows. His heart clenches; he’d love nothing more than to grow old together, but he can’t. There will be somebody else, who’ll trace that wrinkle with their fingers, who’ll notice when Roy’s hair will go grey; somebody who’s not married to another.

Maes feels nauseated, as always when he thinks about it. He’s a possessive type, a jealous one; he hates Roy’s future partner already, for taking what’s _his_ , even though Roy isn’t anybody’s property. And in the same time Roy is mostly okay with Maes being married; he’s a better man than Maes is, with his only concern being Gracia and her feelings, while all Maes does is hurt her and Roy.

Maes is one of the worst men alive; it’s a miracle Roy’s still around.

He sighs; the best thing he can do now is to die, but for a multitude of reasons it’s not an option. So he’ll have to figure it out as he goes, and this includes facing Gracia tomorrow.

 

The morning is lazy. They are not in a hurry, so they both take their time to stretch and to whine about bed being uncomfortable; it became a tradition over several years. They get dressed - and undressed, and then dressed again, they breakfast together in the empty bar under Madame’s glare, and they take a long walk to the train station.

Saying goodbye is always awkward; every time Maes swears it will be the last call, and every time it isn’t. And now the pauses between these calls are getting shorter; seems like his addiction is getting worse.

Roy snaps his fingers, and Maes shakes his head.

‘Sorry,’ he says, squeezing Roy’s hand. ‘I…’

‘You can’t stop thinking. I noticed,’ Roy smiles sadly. ‘I wish I was able to help with that.’

‘You are helping,’ Maes shrugs. ‘You always make me feel better. More like… myself.’

Roy snorts. ‘More like somebody you pretend to be, you mean. Yes.’ He takes out his watch and opens it; Roy was given a new one after that bullet in Ishval. Maes suppresses a shiver.

‘And that must be my train. Time to go,’ Roy says awkwardly, putting his watch away; Maes nods and hugs him, and then lets go without saying anything. He’ll say goodbye later, over the phone, when he can collect himself; when Roy won’t be able to see his face.

Now though Roy isn’t looking in his face, he too hates goodbyes; so Maes exhales and turns around, marching away before he can say or do something stupid, or not stupid but something he would regret.

Boys-only night out is over; it’s time to live his usual life — for now, until next time, until something sets him off, and then… Then he’ll have an excuse to invite Roy to Central again.


End file.
